


On Unwarranted Mistletoe

by tollofthebells



Series: Ellinor Trevelyan [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mistletoe, One Shot, Pre-Relationship, Rivalry, Satinalia, and they're still more or less enemies for this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 07:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17137379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tollofthebells/pseuds/tollofthebells
Summary: Ellinor Treveylan wouldn't want to be caught dead next to Cullen at a ball. Unfortunately, she finds herself caught next to Cullen, a sprig of mistletoe, and a few ogling Orlesians.





	On Unwarranted Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [satinalia18](https://satinalia18.tumblr.com/) tumblr event.

That _dress_. Midnight blue and layers on layers of lace or satin or tulle or whatever the fabric is—he couldn’t care to know, really—and all laden with glittered ribbon crisscrossed over the sleeves and hundreds and hundreds of tiny crystals sitting over the skirts. It’s in Orlesian style, of course, _because we must play to our guests_ , Josephine had said; all billowed out from the the Inquisitor’s waist down to the floor and laced from the small of her back to the nape of her neck in ribbon tied tighter, if it’s possible, than his grip on the pommel of his sword. Which was quite, quite tight.

Above all, it’s an obscene waste of Inquisition funds, if you ask him. And yet he can’t seem to take his eyes off of it.

He watches her, from the safety of the upper balconies in Skyhold’s grand hall, as she moves in and out of the crowd with gracious care and yet so at ease, the skirts of her dress floating along with her like a starlit storm cloud, a tempest of glittered blue swaying to and fro as she curtsies, dances, laughs, converses. Plays their Game as though she’d stolen it straight from the hands of Josephine’s noble guests and owned it herself, turning each player into a mere game piece on a board she played excellently, triumphantly, unchallenged and unparalleled.

He scowls. _Sooner throw the Game and all its players into the fire and be done with it_ , he thinks, but _oh Cullen you have no idea the value_ and _she’s such an excellent player it should be a waste not to_ and _we’ll have to hold a Satinalia ball for the Inquisition_ and Josephine and Leliana’s voices ring in his head like the Satinalia bells adorning the hall and it’s just no fun, no true holiday, he simply can’t make merry and be at ease and celebrate properly when it’s all a farce, all a game, always the Game, they can call him a bore and a spoilsport and a killjoy but it’s true. It’s _true_. Even if he’s the only one who sees it.

So when Josephine’s eyes scan first the crowd below him and finally the balconies above, searching guest to guest, soldier to soldier, friend to friend until at last her gaze meets his and she smiles and waves and beckons him to come down from where he stands, he can only shake his head, stay put with his feet firmly planted on the floor, one hand around his sword and the other clutching a half-heartedly enjoyed glass of Antivan brandy and mouth down to her _no, thank you_.

She frowns at that; he’s not surprised but what does surprise him is the fleetness with which she moves about from her spot along the dance floor, weaving through the guests and the dancers until she finds the Inquisitor, _Maker damn me_ , he knows in an instant the the way Josephine taps her on the shoulder mid-waltz that whatever comes of it cannot possibly be good for him so he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, opens them once more.

The ambassador is pointing at him. And the Inquisitor’s eyes follow. And Josephine says something he can’t quite make out and the Inquisitor shakes her head fervently, _no_ , now _that_ he can make out, and when Josephine nods her head firmly, hands on her hips, the Inquisitor bites her lip, sets her jaw straight and her eyes downcast, _there is no arguing with their beloved ambassador_ , and disappears through the door behind them.

The door to the stairwell.

The door to the stairwell that leads to the balcony.

“Commander,” she says as soon as the balcony door opens, monotone and bored and lacking any of the smiles and merriment and laughter she’d displayed downstairs, “I’ve been tasked with finding out whether you’re enjoying yourself.” He coughs on his brandy then. Of course. “Though I believe the answer is obvious to anyone looking.”

“I assure you, Lady Trevelyan,” he says slowly, not looking at her, only continuing to stare down into the lively crowd below, “I am far more content up here than down there.”

“Well, Josephine said—“

“Josephine said I was to attend her Satinalia ball. She did not specify any particular location she would have liked me to take up.”

“Very well,” she says, brown eyes boring into him coldly as always, he’s not looking at her but he doesn’t need to to know; he can feel her glare as deep and as cutting as the knives she undoubtedly carries beneath that _grossly expensive_ and _utterly ridiculous_ and _horribly overdone_ and _unfortunately quite lovely—_

— _quite lovely_ dress she wears.

If he has any retort for her, he’s no time to say it; she’s no sooner turned to leave than a gaggle of young Orlesian girls burst through the door, laughing and covering their grins with gloved hands and blushing and _staring_ and gasping upon finding the Inquisitor and her Commander atop the balcony, alone.

“Oh!” one giggles at last. “We were told the Lady Montilyet had left mistletoe up on the balconies!” Cullen can feel the color drain from his face. It’s all he can do not the spill the remainder of his brandy onto the floor. “We only came to see—but of course, it appears that you two have already found it!” The girls behind the leader quiver with laughter behind her, and Cullen lets out a deep sigh.

“Yes, I—“ the Inquisitor starts. So rarely is she at a loss for words. It’s unlike her. “I—it appears we have, yes.”

The girls look at them expectantly. All at once, the color returns to his face. Too much color. She turns around to face him and for once he looks upon her straight on, all of her, cheeks rosy and hair braided and skin copper gold and glowing beneath blues and navies and glitters and crystals as though she wears the twilight itself as a gown, and—

“Just do it quickly, please,” she breathes, more mouthing the words to him than speaking them aloud.

“Ah,” he clears his throat. “Yes, um.” A deep breath. He closes his eyes once more, quickly, but all he sees is deep blue, sparkles, brown and gold and blue. He opens them again.

More of the same.

“Lady Trevelyan,” he says softly, taking her hand in his and bowing deeply, and he presses her knuckles to his lips and her fingers smell of embrium, of goldenrod and lavender and pine and it’s only when one of the girls giggles again that he releases her hand, straightens, blinks in a daze as they disappear down the stairs once more, the Inquisitor only a lingering glance and a few steps behind them, back down to the party.

_Maker, take me now._


End file.
